


misplacement

by pendules



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Blackpool to Chelsea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	misplacement

It happens in the worst fucking possible way, too.

It's after Blackpool. And this season is already on a downward trajectory. And it's looking fucking hopeless.

And there's Fernando with his goddamned sad doe eyes, and his tired shoulders, saying, "I'm sorry."

You look at him and you miss him. You miss his ridiculous hair; you miss his expert finishing; you miss when his English wasn't so good and he'd sometimes resort to crude sign language (it always made you laugh). You miss the feel of him hurtling into you to thank you for yet another assist (it's strange, that two people can barely understand each other's words but they can do that; they can create magic). You miss his smile. You feel like if you got these things back, if you got the simple things back, maybe everything else would change too. Maybe it would be okay again. Maybe you wouldn't be so scared.

It's not all you miss though. There are too many things (faces, days, goals, seasons, the ones defined by football and the ones defined by weather patterns: you miss spring; you miss sunlight; you miss being young and feeling like time was limitless) to count.

That's why it's not enough:

His lips against yours, your hands fisted roughly in the back of his jersey. He just patiently lets you kiss him until he feels you give up. Until you realise you're being selfish; you're being stupid, inconsiderate; you're acting like a child when every day your bones are telling you you're getting old. You're old, now. It's not. You don't do this anymore.

And you pull away, and it feels like a defeat. Another defeat.

And he says, "This won't make anything better anyway. Because it's not just about today. It's not about this."

It's not about this day, this season, these goals conceded. It's not about his face.

It's about the day you first put on the armband and vowed to make everyone happy. Including yourself.

He'd said, _I'm sorry_ , though. You look at him and wonder if he'd always understood more than he'd let on.

"I didn't—" you start. "I mean, I'm grateful. Thank you." _Thank you for staying. Thank you for always trying. Thank you for believing in me. Like he did. And like he stopped._

 

The aftermath of the derby is appropriately horrendous.

It's going downhill even faster now.

You think maybe it's easier to not fulfill a promise you made openly to the world than one you made quietly and reverently to yourself, like a prayer.

 

Blackburn. And you get it. You deserve to get it. And you almost lose it. He wouldn't let you though. He wouldn't let them lose it. Not again. Not anymore. Not this time.

And he's brilliant. He's brilliant like you realise you've always expected him to be. It's not a surprise. Not really.

You pull him into a one-armed hug after the match and you start missing him a little less.

 

You watch Spanish football. You groan at every great result Real Madrid gets, and there are a lot of them. It's a masochistic thing, you guess. You like amplified emotions, but you like background noise too. You like having a lot of different emotions at once. It's a reminder. A reminder that things change quickly and that can make you lose your balance if you're not prepared for it. And it's better than feeling nothing. You don't know how to do that. You like feeling conflicting things; you like feeling everything, _too much_ , all of it all at the same time. Which is why you end up doing reckless things.

Which is why you call him after Bolton.

"Do you remember the first time I kissed you?"

"Stevie—"

"No. I just. I did something stupid a while ago, and it was probably more embarrassing than anything I've ever— But I still don't think I could ever feel as embarrassed about anything like I did then. And I didn't even have to be. But Jesus Christ, I was terrified. Before, I mean. Absolutely shitting myself. And after, I just wanted to die. Completely mortified. I couldn't even look anywhere near your face. And you just said—"

"'Took you long enough.'"

"And then I almost died laughing. And I got embarrassed about that too."

"I'd never seen you like that before. It was strange," Xabi says, almost fondly.

"Well, I'd never felt like that before. Before then."

"What is this about, Steven?" His sadness is apparent even through his impatience.

"I— I miss things, Xabi. I'm just trying to find them again."

You miss the wide curve of his lips, and the warm-but-bright images dancing in his eyes as he talked, mouth and hands moving at the same rate; you miss his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist, rhythm not changing even as your tongue found his and he gasped into your mouth; you miss the way he looked from that close up, all cheekbones and eyelashes. You miss tracing your fingers and lips along his jaw line. You miss the way he took your hands to steady them and leaned in again.

These little things, they're all you have now. And they aren't worth anything. Not for the future. It's time. It's time to move on, accept your age and your responsibility. Accept that some promises get broken sometimes, and it's not anyone's fault. But maybe you can repair them with a little effort, a little heart.

 

Three days later you come on at half time and score three goals.

Afterwards, Fernando says, "You see? You still have it." And somehow, you both know exactly what he means.

Maybe, all along, you were missing yourself too. You were missing the hope you used to have, the hope that was everything you were. Everything you are.

Your phone buzzes as he pats you on the back and leaves you.

 _Good job, captain._

You almost forgot, for a second there. And it was good.

 

Chelsea is magic again, almost.

When the second goal goes in, Raul gets to him first. But then he's running over to you, and you make eye contact. You haven't seen him smile like that in what feels like months, years.

And, for an instant, Fernando, Fernando looks like sunshine again. And it's not a memory. It's real.

This time, this time, when you kiss him in the locker room, it's only because of that.


End file.
